Creedless
by Roaming Writer
Summary: Flynn Rider is a criminal who fights for a living, and Rapunzel is an naive girl who just so happens to bump into him. Flynn Rider isn't a nice guy, but perhaps it just takes a drop of sunshine to reveal his true feelings. (Currently rated T, but may be subject to change)
1. The Girl

Flynn squinted his eyes, partly to filter out the blinding fluorescent light above him and to focus on the man in front of him. Well, "man" was an understatement considering the size of the behemoth in front of him. It all felt routine to him: left jab, right cross, left hook. Weave, bob, right hook, and _oof_. _So much for routine_. Without a second to parse through his predicament, he felt his head slam against the mat floor, his mouth opening up just enough for his mouthpiece to come flying out.

Flynn was either a brave or reckless guy depending on who you ask. Hell, you can probably even throw in 'stupid' to that mix of adjectives. So it was no doubt that he had his fair share of near death experiences, given his less than glorious professions. Flynn was a criminal, no doubt about that, but he had boundaries. He was a Robin Hood, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor (i.e. himself). But alas, times are tough when the rich don't exactly have their gold bars behind open gates. So, underground fight club became his occupation, as he fought like a dog for dozens, sometimes hundreds, of bucks per bout. During times like this, he often found himself wondering whether or not it was worth it. But it was most definitely an upgrade.

Pain shot through his abdomen as he fought to seize one more breath. He wanted to yell in agony but he couldn't seem to differentiate his voice from the deafening mob that surrounded the arena. Frankly, he couldn't even tell if he made a squeak with his windless lungs. Just like that, the bell sounded and it was over.

The fight club was in a shady part of town, under an ironically-named bar: The Snuggly Duckling. So it was no doubt that after the fights, there were always drunken fans asking for pictures, autographs, or, if it were girls, kisses. This popularity was also helped by the fact that Flynn was pretty good looking, especially when it came to men in sketchy neighborhoods and shady bars. This time, unsurprisingly, the mob was not as large. This was a relief, considering that his newly received splitting headache didn't really cope well under the noise and chaos of gropey women. Ugh.

"What was that about pretty boy?" Lance Strongbow seemed to always be the first to pounce on Flynn when it came to either his successes or failures.

"Listen, when _you _have to fight a 200 pound, 6 feet man, then you can come talk to me" Flynn retorted back, before a series of violent bloody coughs interrupted his tirade.

"Ey, Flynn are you ok?" Lance raised a brow. "I didn't realize he kicked your ass so hard. Let me help you buddy" He placed his arm around Eugene's upper back, bracing him.

Only when his friend is literally coughing up blood he cares. Go figure. "Thanks, can you just help me up the stairs to the bar. I need a whiskey to kill this pain"

"Trust me pal, you're not the only one."

* * *

By the time the pair reached the counter, the bar was packed. Flynn glanced at his brass watch that read 10:45 PM, which was very early by fight club standards. The watch wasn't gold or diamond encrusted but it was his most valuable possession since it was a gift to him by one of his closest matrons during his orphanage days. "Hardly even 11 yet, I guess getting knocked in the head really messes with time perception"

"Yeah, well you got a long night ahead of you. Make sure to rest." Lance walked him towards the counter where Flynn plopped onto the bar stool like a ragdoll.

"Hey, look out for yourself bud." His tone was no longer sarcastic. "I got a fight to go to, wish me luck!"

"I wish you break a leg." Despite the rib pain, there was always time for a joke and chuckle.

"Yeah, thanks a lot for the support Flynn, I'll be catching you later." With that, he was left alone in the frontlines of Friday Night happy hour️.

Hookhand was making the bar today and orders were flying left and right. True to his name, he was missing a hand, which was replaced by interchangeable bartending tools, often in the shape of a hook. It was surprising how efficient he was at mixing drinks at the cadence of the drunken calls. He always seemed to have his eye on everyone and everything at the same time, so it was no surprise that as soon as Flynn pulled out a lighter, he became the center of attention of the not so handicapped bartender.

"If you're gonna smoke a cig, go out and do it."

"Don't you have better things to do?" Flynn brought the smoke up to his mouth.

"Don't make me come out from behind this table. I'll knock you harder than any of the competition and it ain't gonna be pretty" His teeth emerged from his lips into a scowl.

"Alright alright, calm down." With that, Flynn decided to call it a day as he made his way out of the bar into the rainy weather and onto the puddly sidewalk. He decided to finish his smoke under the awning and neon lights of the bar.

Even though this neighborhood wasn't exactly bourgeoise, there was a certain charm to the delis, laundromats, and residential apartments that littered this side of Corona. And there was certainly something about this bar, which refused to sleep at the chagrin of law enforcement and concerned passerbies. It was peaceful, until an ear piercing high pitched shriek jostled Flynn enough that his poor smoke fell out his fingers and fizzled out on the wet floor.

"God damn—" He started, before realizing the shriek wasn't just your average drunk makeout session or argument, but it was a terrible and blood curdling scream. It came from the back alley, and without hesitation, his fighter instincts propelled him to the noise, ready to save whoever needed saving.

As he turned the corner, he nearly crashed into a hooded figure about a head shorter than him, only averting collision by swerving and subsequently slipping onto his butt for the second damn time that day. To make matters worse, there didn't seem to be anything worthy of commotion in the empty alleyway, not to mention this time he was soaking wet and he was in no peaceable mood for shady teenagers in back alleys pranking him. "Hey kid! Watch where you're goi—"

"Sorry mister," a shrill voice whispered from under a hood.

Upon second glance, he noticed two soft green eyes staring back at him, framed by a small and innocent face. Blonde hair flowed out under the hood and draped unevenly on both her shoulders, which were narrow and slightly slouched. Perhaps it was because he was knocked senseless, but he felt oddly attracted to her.

"Hey kid, was it you that screamed?" Flynn steeled himself as he got up.

"I saw one of those," she lifted a trembling finger and pointed towards a… raccoon?

"Blondie, it's just a raccoon." _Seriously this girl must've gotten a few too many drinks. Should've cut her off, Hookhand._

"Ok, listen," he inched forward, causing the girl to back away, the terror entering her eyes once more. "A-Um-are you ok?"

"Are you going to hurt me?" Her voice quivered, enough to even dent the bold facade of someone like Flynn.

"No, why would I hurt you?" _Ok, I need to leave this girl alone before she freaks out and reports me to the cops. _

"You're big, scary, and mother told me to stay away from men." She stopped backing away as her eyes scanned him up and down, her teeth nervously chewing on her lower lip in a way that would be strangely cute if she wasn't spouting nonsense.

"Mother? Wait a minute, how old are you?"

Her eyes brightened, "I'm turning 18 tomorrow!" Her fear dissolving into a bubbly smile.

"Look, you realize you're at a bar even though you're underage right?"

"Is this what you call it?" She turned 360 to examine her surroundings, as if she was learning something new. "This place is loud and seemed more colorful than all the floating lights in the sky, so I came here to see what it was about"

"Floating lights? The ones they have every year in the town hall?"

"I knew they weren't stars!" Her face lit up and her whole body perked up in excitement.

At this point, Flynn began to question his own soberness. Was he really talking to a girl who never seen a bar or knew what stars were?

"Look, I don't have time for this now blondie. I kinda have to go home to uh.." he gestured to his damp shirt. "Change my clothes"

"Oh," Her eyes dropped, and a bit of light seemed to leave her green eyes. "I thought you were gonna be my friend"

"Friend?" He sputtered. "Look, you do _not _want to be my friend blondie. I got a lot of fans who come here to see me, but not _friends_"

"Can I be your fan then?"

_God this girl is insistent_. "Alright miss," he chuckled. "You'll catch me downstairs in the basement most nights. Now run along now. It ain't safe here."

"Thank you mister uh"

"Rider. Name's Flynn Rider," he said in a low growl as he did thousands of times before, always managing to make the girls swoon except for this one. Well, everyone's gotta strike out eventually.

"Thank you Flynn Rider."

"Yeah yeah," He bent his head down as he searched his pockets to grab a smoke and lighter, his fingers clammy and wet from the cold. "Say, girl, what's your name?"

He realized he was talking to nobody because the girl was gone and the alley was peaceful yet again. Instead of letting this perturb him, Flynn sat on the doorstep and puffed a long breath of tobacco before watching the smoke exhale from his nose, mingling with the beautiful rain drops that _plip-plopped _on the awning above his head. He found himself wondering about that strange girl until finally, the cigarette was done. And yet, he wasn't quite satisfied.


	2. Dreams

"One," he raised a finger. "Two," another finger shot up, the scar tissues of his knuckles becoming more visible under the dim bar light. "Three-"

"Rider, what are you doing?" An audible slap hit his back. Of course it was his buddy Lance, checking in on him as usual.

"What do you want?" Despite knowing him for almost his whole life, Flynn could never understand the enigma that is the psyche of Lance Strongbow, partially because Lance never had a string of coherent thought for more than 10 minutes and because he Flynn prided himself in not delving into the lives of others. Live and let live, a motto he made sure to live by.

"Why have you been so mopey these past days? You're on a losing streak bud" he ran his fingers aimlessly along the edge of a barstool. Although Lance tried to hide it, it was clear that he was worried for him.

"I'm just counting the fights where I've gotten fractures, concussions, and broken bones. You know, the usual." he remarked sarcastically.

"I don't think I can even count that high" he joked as he shot a crumpled napkin into an empty shot glass. He missed.

"Glad you realized that. I just don't know if this is right for me." He got onto his feet and soon realized how drunk he was as he sat down once again, fighting his urge to teeter over and regurgitate his last few hours of alcohol.

"That's nonsense man."

"Doc said it was a concussion," he interrupted sternly, hoping to end the conversation. His head throbbed and frankly speaking with Lance wasn't making it better.

"Well... I guess this is another one to add to your list," he chuckled.

"You don't get it, I'm sick of this life and I might die from a damn hemorrhage before I can get enough cash to just..."

"Leave?" Lance shot a raised brow at him

"Leave, get a nice house, buy an island, yeah leave this dump." He waved his hands around, gesturing as best he can around the crusty room.

"If you recall, we were in this job got us off the streets Flynn. I'm tired of hearing your rants! Just live life!" he gave him another hearty pat which he unsuccessfully deflected.

"Live life? This isn't exactly legal either"

"It's still a decent paycheck. Better than jumping from cell to cell for petty crimes. We're in this together."

"With rent and bills, a cell is looking mighty fine right now," Flynn's voice became noticeably sardonic. He felt an unexplainable feeling of injustice and anger. Why did he have to be an orphan, tossed into the impoverished foster system only to be regurgitated onto the streets as a teenager whose quick feet and slick manners helped him survive day to day on the money-filled pockets of launderers and tax evaders? He had a simple dream: to live in a nice house alone on a nice island, far away from the cops and everything that he hated about Corona.

He brushed his hands through his hair, parting it in the middle like he always did. He attempted to get up on unsteady feet again, grasping at the counter, hoping not to lose his balance.

"Appreciate the little things in life. You ever heard that saying before? Why can't you put your ego and stupid dream aside and focus on reality for once?!"

Reality. Focus on reality. Why? The reality of suffering? Of orphans being tossed onto the street and young boys being thrown in cells for trying to survive? Flynn felt his emotions boil and his diaphragm ignite. He tossed his drink against the wall and heard the smashed glass clink on the floor. "The little things in life? Like a family? Friends? A home? Love?" He raised a finger at his friend. "All my life," he exclaimed. "All my life I yearned for the little things in damn life."

As if a phantom flew through the bar, a hush fell upon the bar goers and a few pairs of eyes were fixed upon the two.

"Your life? I lived off the same scraps as you, slept in the same beds as you Rider. You and I, we're in the same boat and you're sinking it."

"If that's how you feel, I just can't do this with you anymore! You can stay here content with eating crap and living like shit. You settle for this when…" he rose his fingers, framing an imaginary picture. "When there's so much more out there ." "What about me? Do you think I want to follow you everywhere and evade the cops all my life? I may not have a family but I sure as hell have friends to call my brothers and sisters. You, Flynn, are my brother" he exhaled. "Maybe one day you'll see that." With a sigh of dismay, Lance left the bar, leaving Flynn standing there himself. As the eyes of the spectators slowly left him, the rowdy atmosphere of the bar slowly resumed. . He had to leave. This place gave him a migraine and that incident didn't make it any easier. Who did he think he was? How dare he play the moral high ground when he was the one who became complacent and weak? Fuck

So, he stepped foot outside and checked his watch. 12:30 AM As he walked down the avenue, he puffed away at a cigarette thinking about what life might have been like had he been dealt a good hand. A father, a mother, apple pie, baseball, the perfect Coronan life, a whole world of untapped potential he could never experience. Yet when his cigarette was done, he realized how much he missed the good old days when he didn't worry about the future. He missed the days when he was a carefree thief living life moment to moment too preoccupied to question anything. The days of a young kid with large aspirations and an even bigger heart. Oh how he yearned to cherish those days in earnest and see past the gloom and dread that veiled his life with an aura of hopelessness. Some day perhaps he'll live his dream. Someday.


	3. Have a Drink

For once, he thought, for once he could be prosperous. Triumphantly wealthy enough to ignore the childish unfulfilled delusions that lingered in his mind like a ghost. The sleepless nights and lonely weekends started off as mere inconveniences until they became a plague, destroying his health and relationships. Fight nights became dreadful, a stagnant routine of victories or broken noses, neither feeling any different from the other.

His watch read 3:15 AM. An hour and 45 minutes before the alarm was set to ring, stuck in a limbo between the bliss of sleep and the dread of daily life. That's the funny thing, people want to fall asleep and dream instead of trudging to work and dealing with society. But why? Is it because dreams were so easily forgotten? Because it is so easy to escape into a new reality every night without the regrets of the past? Still, even in dreams, the past always finds a way to haunt.

He picked up his phone from the nightstand, the blue light blinding him for a second. A missed call from Stalyan. He tapped the call icon, waiting for the dial tone to end.

"Flynn." her voice finally broke the silence.

"Hey beautiful, what's up?" he responded with his raspy morning voice.

"Let's meet."

A hoarse cough escaped his throat. That was the last thing he wanted to hear. "Sorry, I just woke up. What time? Where? ."

"45 minutes, at the bar. See you soon handsome," she said before hanging up the phone.

Handsome. Not like he hasn't heard that before. His head ached as he got out of bed. Fuck.

He fixed his tie in front of a car window, adjusting his half windsor and collar. It was 4:00 AM now, when the bar opened. There she was, sitting alone, a martini in one hand and a phone in another. Her eyes lifted from her device.

"Flynn," a commanding but seductive voice came from her red-painted lips.

"Stalyan," he approached, grabbing a seat next to her.

"Have a drink," she raised another glass.

He took the glass, downing it in one go. "Why so early?"

"I just wanted to tell you something." she leaned forwards and planted her lips on his, the taste of alcohol on her lips was...intoxicating. "It's about my father. He likes you."

"Hmm," Flynn placed the glass on the table. "Who doesn't?" He stared into her seductive dark eyes. They were fiercely locked with his own but he felt... Nothing. The same feeling as every other girl he'd dated, slept with. A boring attraction, as empty as he felt now.

"Why did you insist on coming here of all places?" Flynn asked with a hint of weariness in his voice.

"Well, my father owns this fine establishment so I guess you can say I grew attached to this place," her silk-gloved fingers traced the edges of the pub table.

"Would've prefered to grab a coffee."

In the distance, sirens sounded, which provided an impetus for Flynn to break his stare, pretending to be allured by the harsh blare of the police cars. The police that he used to run away from, that he used to hide from… that Stalyan saved him from. If it wasn't for her wealthy family, he would still be in jail, without a legitimate penny to his name. He would still be on the streets, living a life of crime if it wasn't for her interest in him; it was because of that one-night-stand in the back of a rival-gang's safehouse, the momentary romance between two slick criminals who, by sheer luck, ended up heisting the same location, him because he always hated the Stabbington gang, and her, because the Stabbingtons had a debt to her father, the Baron. The Baron, who had a soft spot for Flynn's wit and fighting prowess that he offered him, and Lance, a well-paying job as a underground fighter whose pay made up for the dangers and grit of the 'profession'. Perhaps it was to his initial attraction to Stalyan, the desire to get on the good side of a powerful family, or his yearning to escape a life of crime, that he fought hard, winning the favor of Stalyan and the Baron.

Yet, this hollow relationship with her never truly blossomed and felt like an anchor in his life, an extended affair that he hoped would end eventually, but never did. Sure, he respected her ferocity and determination but their relationship grew rotten. She loved him for his charm, and her alluring beauty drew him in, hiding the numerous times she'd use sublime blackmail and manipulation that was so slight, he didn't realize it until it was too late. His life, she'd remind him, was a result of her wealth and her father's generocity. She'd tell him, through the most beautifully veiled threats, that without her, he'd be penniless and nameless. "You're right," he'd say, prolonging the inevitable end of a toxic relationship. Their relationship was surface level at best and he didn't really know her any more than he knew his fans. He chucked at the thought of having fans, a term that he never really used until he spoke with that curious girl in the back of the alley. That girl, who was as endearing as she was innocent. He shook away the almost instinctive and random thought of holding that poor girl who seemed so scared…

"Flynn" she snapped.

He recollected his thoughts, "Em, sorry.. I blanked. You were saying?"

"I…" she took off a silk glove and held his rough hand with her delicate fingers. "I've been thinking about us. Father, and I, want us to get engaged."

His heart stopped and he choked, letting out an audible cough. "Engaged?"

Her eyebrows furrowed. "Is something wrong? We've been together for almost a year now."

Maybe that was true, but it was a wishy washy year, a string of interactions that were more erotic than romantic, and more drunk than sober. An engagement with Stalyan was a prospect that frightened him not just because it was at the cost of freedom, or even that rejecting Stalyan meant losing the financial safety and security of the Baron, but that he didn't know exactly what he wanted with love. All he knew was that whatever he had was not love.

"I don't know." He paused, gently withdrawing his hand from hers. "Stalyan, I know how much we've been through, how much your family has done for me, but I can't now."

"Why not? Maybe you don't see it yet, but I think this will be better for both of us," she coaxed, an aura of uneasiness in her voice.

"No, what we have isn't love Stalyan. I'm not even sure it's a relationship."

"But handsome," she leaned in for a kiss that, instead of evoking excitement, only seemed to repulse him, as he broke off the contact instantaneously. "What the fuck Flynn?" her eyes became piercing and her beautiful red lips tightened into a frown. He felt the rift between them grow as tears entered her angry eyes.

It was like a bandage that clung on, a relationship that was doomed from the start. A rage filled him as the magnitude of the situation dawned on him. Who was she to ask him to give up so much of himself so quickly and yet be so flustered when he declined? He wanted to tell her that he wasn't exactly thrilled to continue their hollow relationship that was built off of threats and manipulation.

"Our relationship," his voice was stoic and his eyes were glued to hers. "It's destroying me Stalyan. I can't—"

At that moment, he felt his face jerk at the impact of a hard slap that stung his heart more than his cheek. Never before in his life as a fighter had he been so hurt, so shocked, so crippled by a hit that, for all intents and purposes, was not going to knock him out despite how much she wanted to.

"Destroying you? I gave you a life and a job. Do you know who you are? You're a washed up nobody that took advantage of my love and kindness. If it wasn't for me, you would still be a common thief rotting away behind bars," her words bit into him as he stood there, his hand nursing his face, still recovering from the emotional turbulence. "If it wasn't for me, you'd still be a poor orphan boy with nobody to remember your insignificant life!"

With that, she was gone. She was out of the door before he could utter a word, perhaps to remedy the situation or get back at her cruelty with his own. But what could he say? She was right. She gave him and his closest friend a life, a career. Before this, he was a worthless criminal whose death wouldn't even have warranted an obituary in a 10 cent newspaper. His head was spinning and he heaved out what he could in the alleyway dumpster, bracing his weight on a rusted steel beam that threatened to collapse under the pressure of his heavy heart. When he was done, he felt like he could breathe a little better as he thought about the breakup. In a way, he was glad it was over.

Flynn's eyes were fixated at the sky which turned a wonderful hue of orange as morning dawned. He fingered for his pack of cigarettes only to realize he had run out. But for once, he didn't feel like he needed them. He stepped foot out of the alley and took a deep breath of the crisp morning wind as the morning warmth greeted him. God. It was beautiful.


	4. The Noise

The trick to being a fighter and a thief is remaining calm before a heist, a fight, and even in the face of death. So it surprised Flynn that he found himself erratically tapping his watch, dwelling on what was about to unfold.

His knees bounced with the rhythm of the muffled music that blasted in the boxing ring just outside of the locker room. He could practically smell the sweat and blood-stained mats that begged to be washed no thanks to the lack of an underground-fight-club health code. He closed his eyes and listened to the music being drowned out by the savage cheers and chants of the bloodthirsty viewers, whose decibels seemed to be proportional to the number of teeth knocked out. It wasn't any ordinary bout, but a tournament, meaning more money at the expense of more fighting. He wanted to leave this damn place after the incident with Stalyan, he told himself, on account that he probably wasn't on the best terms with the Baron anymore. Still, if he wanted to leave, the prize money wouldn't hurt. It was the finals: the last stretch.

"Rider. You're up soon," a voice beckoned him.

Flynn stood up, stretching his wrists before instinctively wrapping them tightly, reinforcing his toughened knuckles with even more protection. He stripped off his top layer of clothes, revealing a toned body that could've belonged on a men's model magazine if not for the bruises, scars, and tight joints. Flynn squared his stance and threw a few jabs at an invisible opponent. He bobbed out of the wave of an imaginary cross, and weaved into a right hook.

"Right in the nose! And the crowd goes wild," he cheered, imitating the thunderous applause. Flynn was a hypocrite at times, scorning the folly of underground-fight-club-fame when waking up from a terrible hangover and at the same time yearning for that same fame and applause when he stepped in the ring. Perhaps this desire for fame is merely a product of evolution, a tool to overflow his body with much needed adrenaline. Or perhaps he cherished desire, the admiration he never got from his fans, Stalyan, or himself. For some reason his mind detracted to memories of that girl in the alley who, despite only knowing him for 5 minutes, showed a genuine sense of wonder in him that was… endearing.

A bell rang in the distance. "Rider. You're up," the same man came in, urgently gesturing for him.

The spotlights blinded him and the announcements blared, "Now, entering the ring is the fan favorite, 180 pounds hailing from the slums of Corona, the lean mean thief of Corona! Hold onto your girls gentlemen, or he might steal their hearts ! Give it up for Flyyyynnnnnn Riiiider!"

The applause followed him as he stepped into the ring, before the VIP box caught his eye. He nearly tripped on the ascent, trying to make sense of why the Baron was staring at him. The 6'3 foot behemoth of a man hardly showed his face in public, usually busily operating hundreds of fight clubs and schmoozing with other crime lords' wives. What was he doing here at this specific nameless joint? Before he had time to look at his opponent or even comprehend why the Baron had an unsettling smile on his face, the starting bell rang.

His opponent approached him, and threw a feeble jab to which Flynn merely slipped out of the way , returning with a few hooks to his opponent's torso, causing him to stumble back as the crowd grew more rowdy. Another punch came his way, and Flynn raised his hand to catch the punch, he felt a sharp pain as his palm came in contact with not flesh or bone, but metal. Brass.

Stalyan. The Baron watching him. Grinning. It all made sense. This wasn't a fight. This was an execution.

A few more punches rained down at him as he sidestepped them, knowing full well that blocking any brass knuckles would leave hurt him more than anything. This wasn't a fair fight, but then again, fair wasn't a luxury that Flynn Rider had. Fairness didn't make him an orphan. Fairness didn't put him on the streets. Fairness didn't help him survive. Another hook flew above his head and Flynn capitalized with a solid uppercut, hitting his opponent square in his stubbled jaw, stumbling him backwards and onto his knees, defeated. Now that was fair. The cheers became intoxicating as the rowdiness became a charged chant of "_RIDER RIDER RIDER." _His eyes glazing past the pastel faces of his fans and the scowl that replaced the grin on the Baron's face. As he spun around, soaking in the adoration, a glimpse of blonde caught his eye. A hoodie, green eyes, small girl, front row, an anomalous drop of sunshine in the murky-watery wave of his fans. Her. He felt time stand still. Perhaps he did invite her but she clearly didn't belong here. She wasn't cheering. She wasn't screaming. She wasn't a fan.

Then Flynn was weightless. His feet no longer touched the ground and the world began to turn. No. He was falling. Falling. Thud. He heard a whistle and the countdown began. 10... The chants stopped as murmurs filled the audience. 9… Not like this… 8… The chants resumed, this time filled with more energy as dozens stood up, hoping to catch a better view of the downed former champion. 7… Blondie... 6... She was staring at him, motionless, a blur of confusion and fear in her eyes, her fingers clinging onto the chain linked fence that surrounded the ring. Her mouth was moving but he couldn't hear what she said. 5… Flynn Rider braced his weight as he lifted his body off the crusty mat, as his name rang louder and louder. 4… This wasn't his first rodeo. His face had made the ground's acquaintance quite a lot; the orphanage floors and the cracked concrete of alleyways were more than familiar pals. But Flynn Rider always got up, too busy living to die. Too busy dreaming to sleep. Too busy chasing the light to succumb to the darkness.

3… Perhaps it was because he couldn't bear to see the girl so distraught, or perhaps it was his desire for the prize money, or even the knowledge that whether or not he died during the match would not change the fact that the Baron would have him killed, that he got up and spat, wiping the blood from his nose.

"AND HE'S UP!" The bell rang, and the crowd resumed its fervor. The Baron stood, fists clenched in frustration.

The air brushed past his cheeks as a punch just barely missed his face. In he went for a flurry of body punches, his sweaty body against his opponents, their faces side by side and bodies in full contact, the intimacy between men that was only possible in fighting. His opponent desperately clinched with him and he felt his opponent's labored breath as Flynn went landing more shots on his breadbasket. He could hardly breath as he absorbed the desperate counterblows, tightening his core as his opponent retaliated with brass. But Flynn had the advantage inside his guard and stayed tight with the enemy, targeting every inch of free real estate with his anger and passion. The cheers became intoxicating as the fury of blows became bullets.

With one final hit, his punch connected right under his opponent's rib cage. A liver shot. Just like that, he saw the man cripple in front of him before kissing the canvas. Euphoria rushed over him. It was over. Flynn took one last final breath of the congested air that he had become nose blind to. He was gonna get away from here. Far far away. He held onto the trophy, his arms raised high above his head. He could almost feel the warm sun and blue waters where he was headed. He dreamed of a new job in a better city, drinking coffee on the weekends instead of alcohol. So why did it bother him that, scanning around the crowd, the girl wasn't there anymore? Why did it bother him that Blondie seemed so terrified before, like a child stripped of her innocence? Did he care about her? No.

Perhaps it was his luck changing for the better. Perhaps it was a good sign that the Baron's VIP booth was suddenly empty, or that Blondie was nowhere to be seen. Less distractions, he told himself. Less noise.


	5. Goodbye

After the fanfare Flynn yearned for a smoke, exiting to the alleyway next to the bar, Even though Hookhand wasn't there to threaten him for lighting one indoors, he decided that he grew fond of the tranquility of the, albeit pungent, alleyway with only the flickering neon lights to keep him company. Plus, he got his nose broken so many times he might as well have surrendered his sense of smell.

A part of him hoped he would again bump into that strange girl again, just so he would have the chance to ask her name and perhaps what she thought of the fight. Instead, he found Lance waiting for him, leaning against the bar's brick wall. "Lance," he started. Flynn didn't expect him to be there, much less seemingly worried about him. He was speechless, his mind still dwelling on the events that transpired since his argument with his friend, and by the regret over what he could've done and said differently. "I didn't expect to see you here, but I'm… glad you are"

Lance looked directly at Flynn with regretful but understanding eyes. "Yeah, I didn't expect to see you here either, especially since the doctor told you to take at least a month off to heal from the fractures." He stood up, walking closer to his friend. "I'm guessing it was for the money right?"

Flynn continued with his business, almost nonchalantly as if the string of tension and worry between them was non-existent. "Since when did you check up on me?" he said, bringing a lighter up to the cigarette between his lips. The flame didn't ignite.

"Since you entered a tournament out of the blue straight after you got fucked up during your previous fight," Lance snapped, as he pulled his lighter up to light the cigarette between the smaller man's lips.

"Thanks," Flynn murmured between puffs, expecting to be greeted with some sort of animosity, perhaps a continuation of their unfinished verbal sparring a few days ago. Instead, Lance reached a hand out on his shoulder.

"Flynn, I wanted to apologize for what happened a few days ago. The things I said were…"

"Lance. It's cool. Water under the bridge. " Flynn interrupted, gently brushing off his friend's hand. "Plus, I should be the one to apologize. You've been by my side for the longest time and truth be told, I just didn't know how to express myself. You know me, I've never been good with words."

The change in Lance was instant, a comforting smile stretched across his dark stubbled face. "You don't have to be. You always had more ambition than me and I envy that. Ever since we were boys, you were one step ahead in life even though I was older. I understand why you want to leave and it was selfish of me to expect you to stay by my side for as long as you did," he chuckled mournfully. "You're my brother and I know that I ought to be cheering you on instead of reprimanding you."

"Come on," Flynn retorted with a grin. "You were always my best friend and partner in crime. Hell, if it wasn't for you watching my back, I would've never made it out of the orphanage alive," he said, gripping his friend's arm. "You're a good man, Lance. If I could, I would throw away everything just to relive the good old days. But I can't. Not now."

"So. This is really it huh? After spending our lives together, I guess you're really leaving…" he whispered, his baritone voice cracking as tears entered his eyes.

Before Flynn could make out words, he embraced his friend, holding the larger man tight, so that he wouldn't see that his eyes, too, were a watery-red mess. "Damn," Flynn managed to laugh in between sobs. "I love you brother."

Then, everything stopped. "Flynn!" In what felt like a millisecond, his arms loosened as he fell to the ground, pushed by his friend who stood in front of him. Lance, who fell back himself after two loud gunshots echoed in the narrow alley, had his eyes fixed on Flynn and a smile on his face, as if he was happy that his last minute maneuver managed to save his best friend's life at the cost of his own. After Lance's body thud to the ground, a voice rang from behind, a masked man standing at the opening of the alleyway and holding a handgun pointed at the man he missed at first. At Flynn.

"Here's a parting gift, courtesy of the Baron," his deadpan voice showing no remorse. "I guess your buddy made this a little more difficult for me."

Fire flowed through Flynn's veins as rage gripped every molecule in his body, which no longer acted with any input from his mind. Almost as if it was instinct, he got up and ran towards the assailant, choking from the tears he forgot he had, and rushing at the figure, obscured by the water in his eyes. He didn't care if he got shot here and now. All he yearned for before he succumbs to the bullet is that every fiber of his body could pull him to crush the masked man's face, to gouge his stone cold eyes, to beat him until he broke every bone in his body so that he could suffer before his ultimate demise.

He didn't care that a bullet could hit him faster than he could sprint 15 feet, or that his brashness would mean Lance's last act of heroism was in vain. He wanted vengeance, blood to quench his hatred. As he ran forward, staring at the end of the barrel of the handgun, he saw the masked man fall, his gun misfiring, the bullet whizzing by Flynn's ear before stopping with a metallic tink. Behind the gunman's silhouette was a smaller one, hooded and carrying what seemed to be a pan above her head.

Perhaps it was his watery vision or the fact that his mind was still processing all that has happened, but he hardly recognized the silhouette until he approached the downed and now defenseless gunman, mounting his stomach and clenching his neck with a ferocious vice grip that was unprecedented even for a fighter like him, and pounding his face into the asphalt with a swift blow from his hardened knuckles. He yelled without processing his words, he cried as his fists moved in rage, encouraged by the desperate gurgling of his former assailant, who undoubtedly was begging for mercy with the limited breath he had between punches. Every crack he felt as his fists collided with the man's face re-energized him and every thought of Lance, whose body now lay silent in a revolting alleyway, committed Flynn to his successive punches. As he raised his arm for another blow, he felt something stop him. Blonde hair flowed from under her hood, both her hands, no longer gripping an iron pan, holding back Flynn's fists from pursuing the revenge they wanted. Her soft green eyes burned into his with a plea to stop, that what he did was enough. Her small mouth parted to say something that he couldn't hear over the choking sound of the man below him and his heartbeat that rang in his head. She looked at him like a puppy witnessing the rampage of a rabid dog, whose fear only matched her concern. "PLEASE," he finally heard her say. "FLYNN PLEASE STOP IT!."

He needed to finish him, to make him suffer. But he couldn't, not like this. His will softened and he felt his grip and strength weaken. The man below him was still alive, just barely gasping for air with his broken nose and bloody mouth in between shallow breaths. His eyes were swollen shut, and he was relatively quiet. The air grew stale as Flynn caught his breath, her hands still holding onto his. Memories flashed, briefly, of time between bars, spent waiting for the next meal and the rare moments of recreation outside of his 6 by 6 confines. He didn't mind ending back in the clink, after all, he knew the ins and outs of the system well. It wouldn't phase him if he got another 10 years for almost killing a man no matter how much he deserved it. But as he looked at Blondie, he felt a weight in his heart. As long as he lived, he couldn't imagine dragging her down with him no matter her culpability. It was late, but he didn't know how late as he noticed his watch was cracked. Perhaps they still had time. So the words escaped his mouth with urgency and remorse, "Blondie. We have to go."


	6. A New Creed

Flynn had a dangerous ability to attract attention from the opposite sex, whether that was a result of his debonair charm or rugged good looks. Ironically, though, he wouldn't count his courting life as a success, due his rocky relationship with Stalyan and the fact that such charm was more of a hindrance considering the fact that the Baron's daughter was not shy about her jealousy. Despite this, Flynn had been with more women than men twice his age could dream about, though none really lasted for more than a week and surprisingly he never had the urge to continue after home base even given the opportunities to do so.

So it should've been no surprise that the course of his actions led him, again, to another female's dwelling place, except for the fact that he didn't plan this nor did he know her name until they reached the door of her apartment.

It was a three story apartment complex that was located a healthy distance from much of the city. In a neighborhood hidden behind obscure corners and alleys, and with the lack of cars and pedestrians on the, albeit narrow, streets that surrounded the complex, Flynn was inclined to think that the majority of the building was vacant as well. It didn't help that the place was practically surrounded by overgrown vegetation that made it difficult to see much of even the sky. This would've surprised him until he entered into the complex and was greeted with overgrowth and crumbling infrastructure. With the main lobby of the apartment complex looking like a botanical garden gone wrong, it became clear that the building was in fact no longer operational in spite of the fact that it was the home to no other than Blondie, who up to this point was hardly an acquaintance yet also the girl who saved his life in that alleyway with nothing more than a frying pan. He felt an uneasy chill creep down his arm and a flutter seize his heart.

"My name is Rapunzel," she said with a sigh of relief, as if it was difficult for her to reveal her name. Though, it was hard for Flynn to gauge much of the emotions shrouded under her hood. It was a strange name, almost befitting the unique atmosphere of the scene, from the eroded statue of a nude woman to the water-less fountain that was in the middle of the complex, enclosed by two floors of abandoned residential areas. It was eerily tranquil viewed from the second floor walkway.

"Gesundheit," he quipped, hoping to elicit a chuckle or at least a smile from the girl. Instead, she stared back at him with clueless wide eyes, perhaps because the comment flew over her head or the fact that he must've looked strange chuckling at his own joke. _Not my best day._

The door opened with a creak, honestly in better condition than the rest of the building. Flynn could hardly believe his eyes when he stepped foot into the apartment, greeted by vibrant walls that contrasted the dark green vegetation and dull gray concrete of the exterior. It wasn't until his eyes adjusted to the darkness that he noticed that plastered on the walls were not wallpaper, but paintings. He quickly recollected himself, not daring to show too much awe in front of the strange girl lest she interpret that as fondness, which would mean as much trouble for her as it did for him.

"This art. It's beautiful," the words mumbled under his breath inaudible to her. His eyes scanned over the light pastels that balanced perfectly with the muted shades, like the emotions that swirled in his heart. He couldn't seem to put his finger on it but the paintings seemed to dance.

He stood close to Rapunzel amid the dim room, lit by a single window offset just enough so that her facial features were illuminated under her hood. "I never had anyone in here before…" Her fingers danced nervously hidden underneath the long sleeves.

A breath of air escaped his nostrils, still somewhat in disbelief that he was here, in the middle of a decrepit building his heart still heavy from the thought of losing Lance. "You live here alone?"

Her green eyes darted up to his, as vibrant as the colors that surrounded them. "This building has been my world for most of my life." a hint of malaise in her voice.

"You didn't answer my question," the words escaped his mouth as he pondered the almost absurd notion that a young girl like her could exist in the confines of this dreary atmosphere. But the painted walls and eclectic objects (was that a ventriloquy set?) around the room seemed to fit the bill.

"I'll tell you more about myself, if you can help me with something," she said, standing a little taller with her light pink lips pursed into a forced scowl. Her whole body was tense, a painfully obvious, and admittedly cute, attempt at feigning toughness.

He would've laughed except he didn't think that demoralizing the girl would help either of them. So, in classic Flynn Rider fashion, he played his part and let her feel in control as to diffuse the situation as smoothly as possible. "What makes you think that I am eager for your life story Blondie? Look, I would love to help you but I have things I need to do," he answered stoically, knowing full well that he had enough money to travel far away from Corona, and subsequently far away from the chaos that had engulfed him recently.

"Because we're friends," she blurted out, her posture dissolving back to her usual sheepishness.

His heart deflated. "I don't mean to burst your bubble Rapunzel, but friends are … you know… people you can trust and people you enjoy being with," he answered, his heart aching a little as thoughts of Lance flooded his mind.

"So that means we're friends then," her eyes lit up for a moment, even enough to make Flynn's cold heart cleave.

"I've already told you before, you and I are not exactly… simpatico, you understand?" Not his best delivery but he hoped that the message got through, because frankly he didn't want to get to know her anymore than he had to, because he had an odd feeling he was already too attached to her.

She stared blankly at him, with an innocent glaze over her eyes.

Flynn let out a sigh of defeat. He was going to regret this. "What kind of favor, your highness?"

As if the snide remark flew right over her head, a smile spread across her face as she made her way towards the solitary window in the room, pointing out to an empty patch of night sky that was unobscured by the trees. "I want to see the floating lights, and since you're super good at fighting I want you to be my bodyguard ."

Flynn had followed close to the girl, careful not to slip on the paintbrushes littered on the floor. But instead of looking out the window, he couldn't help but keep his gaze on Rapunzel, the strange girl that entered his life in the middle of the night, who lives in the middle of nowhere, and whose insistence that Flynn was her friend was a dead giveaway that she had none of her own. Yet she radiated an aura of purpose and awe that was magnetic. Hell, she saved him, and if not solely for preventing the twinkle in her eye from fading, Flynn would owe her a favor worth his life.

"So why did you ask _me _Rapunzel?"

"Because," she whispered from under her hood. "I can tell that you have a good heart."

He scoffed. "You don't know anything about me."

"You're an orphan. Kinda like me. And even though you feel trapped in Corona, you are willing to give everything you have for your dream," she responded matter-of-factly.

Flynn's felt a lump in his throat. "How did you?"

"I overheard you talking to your friend," her voice dropped after she realized she breached a touchy subject.

"You're a smart girl, I'll give you that," he chuckled, trying to bury the painful thoughts. "But why should I trust you?"

She pulled down her hood, and for a split second, he couldn't believe that she was the same person. Her face was no longer shrouded, and he could pick out subtle delicate features. Her lightly freckled round nose and small lips were accentuated by a natural blush in a way that he felt guilty for finding so captivating. But what slipped by his vision at first became clearer as he noticed a sizable scar on her neck. "Because I know what it is like to be stuck somewhere your whole life and to be hurt doing so," her long fingers traced the scar which seemed to make her slightly grimace in pain despite the fact that it was clearly healed.

"Your mother," he paused, knowing that it was probably not the best time to bring it up as it began to dawn on him.

Rapunzel's silence was the verification he needed. If he couldn't piece it together before, he could now. She was broken. Scared. He knew it all too well. Though it was long ago, he too stood in her position, a mess of turbid emotions the first day he arrived at the orphanage, the new environment like a septic shock to his child self. Ironically he couldn't remember why he cried or how he ended up in the orphanage, for the matrons never told him about his parents. But he recalled the pain of feeling unwanted by those who should have loved him the most. She needed someone now, even if it was just a stranger. "I'll help you, Rapunzel."

And for a moment he wondered if he was hallucinating when she threw her arms around him and hugged him for a brief few seconds before breaking it off, her cheeks flushed light pink.

When he considered his life, it seemed like a loose thread in a sweater that he kept pulling, hoping that someday it would end. But it wasn't until this moment that he realized he needed to cut that thread before it became worse. Rapunzel was a paradox, a determined and starry eyed appearance masking family drama that he frankly couldn't pretend to fully understand. But he _wanted _to understand her, if not for his own curiosity, then for her sake. Though subtle, he couldn't help but feel as though she had planted in him a creed that was bigger than his own grandstandings. A faith that his life and his dream could be more than it was.


End file.
